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Lads and Ladettes

 

Watch them spilling out of pubs,

pissing on lamp posts, spewing grub.

In short-sleeve shirts

and belts for skirts,

swaggering or teetering on broken bottles,

belching and bitching, screeching full-throttle.

Fuck this, fuck that, fuck me

Fucking grab that fucking taxi!

A skirmish as two mullets collide,

missiles being lobbed by the birds at the side.

One of them has ogled the other one’s woman.

The lads parry fists to the battle cry c’mon then!

A siren approaches, the polis dismount.

It wisnae fucking me, ya fascist wee cunt!

And then a blade snatched out in fury;

in two months time, a stone-faced jury.

The slopping out still makes him retch.

Head down mate.  You’ve a bloody long stretch!

 

Meanwhile walking home on a Saturday night,

I suddenly realise I’m getting old

as I wince to my partner

“that girl will catch her death of cold!”

imagesimages-7  db98cd30369599c2907352f00279f98b pladette1_1423358c

New Town Chavs

 

Their status screams

from thick-grooved cords –

mustard, claret, or salmon pink,

always an inch too short,

with a turn-up perching on

incongruously pristine brogues.

The torso is clad in faint check

olive wool blend,

perhaps with a quilted grillet

under the jacket – purchased from

the hunting, shooting, fishing shop

(where else would one find them?)

A tweed flat cap completes

the uniform.

Tally ho chaps!

Anyone for a spot of grouse?

The New Town chav is a creature

native to the finer tastes in life.

But Burberry’s been hijacked

so they might as well resort

to shooting smack!

Barbour quilted jacket  bone-chav

cameron-shooting (1)

 

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